


Bring a chair over

by orphan_account



Series: Carve your place in my heart [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23318305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Living with Atsumu Miya is like being exposed to radioactive waste in the form of narcissistic tantrums and chaotic behaviours every day.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: Carve your place in my heart [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660912
Comments: 19
Kudos: 392





	Bring a chair over

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with another part! Just a quick note over the tags, the angst here is very very light - just Atsumu being insecure and acting like a human disaster. Nothing new.

Kiyoomi rarely, if ever changes idea mid-action, he likes straight lines, black and white spaces and spotless surfaces. He organizes his mind like he organizes his routine, repetitive and certain. He washes his hands too many times to count even if it makes the skin on his knuckles all dry and red and itchy. He likes to jog in the morning, showers twice a day and washes his hair in the evening. He does his laundry before going to sleep and prepares two different outfits for the morning after. He double checks the door and every window before laying down to sleep and only eats foods he prepares for himself even if they never taste as good as his mother’s used to, because he doesn’t trust the manufacturing behind the colourful packages of processed food exposed in stores.

It’s true that he overthinks and reconsiders probably a billion times, he shuts down completely and only listens to the voice in his head listing out all the dangers he exposes himself to every time he steps out the door and the freezing reality that he can’t do the things he loves if he doesn’t, can’t play volleyball. Sometimes he can’t even breathe if he doesn’t open his front door or windows. Seeing the world going on as per usual gives him a peculiar sense of calm before the dreadful possibility of something -polluted air, bugs, stray animals, _someone?-_ entering his apartment ingraines in his mind and he's forced to check every crack and lock in the house.

Sometimes he doesn’t even understand his mind, scratch that, most of the time he doesn’t.

And so he has learned to swallow his fears and tread in a world that has never given him happiness in the form of the childlike carefreeness he saw in his peers, or love as in motherly hugs, paternal squeezes of shoulders and brotherly ruffling of hair. He still hasn’t forgiven it for taking them all away from him, for making him cower and flinch when all he wanted was to leap out and _feel_.

He’s learned for volleyball before anything else, because when he plays, his analytic mind bends to the only purpose of getting the ball on the other side of the net in the most favourable way to victory and all that usually takes up the space in his head gets pushed farther back, to deal with _later,_ because now it’s only volleyball and he can finally breath, lungs filled to the brink and muscles lax and ready to spring. On his first day of practice, that now seemed light years away, he almost fainted trying to scurry away from his teammates that were standing too close for comfort, while simultaneously keeping his eyes trained on the ball above his head. He ended up hyperventilating, head spinning like crazy and legs like jelly, but when the coach was about to bench him for the day and probably send him to the infirmary, a ball had come his way and he had jumped, mind clear and finally, finally quiet. Form all kinds of wrong he slammed the ball too hard and too long on the other side, ending in an exceptional home run. That was the first time he truly felt _alive_.

When he plays, he can’t think of anything else and not one of the university courses he applied to after graduation accomplished on replicating that same level of clear-mindedness and one-target resolve a nicely set ball instilled in him. So he came back to it.

Kiyoomi doesn’t like uncertainties, he grew up believing that honesty was all one needed to live a simple, quiet life and that there’s no need to lie or hide things -maybe that turned out to be more to his parents benefit than his own, however. If you don’t like something the easier way out is to just state so, no one can come at you for saying the truth. He soon learned that the majority of people didn’t think the same and didn’t like his bluntness and straightforward answers. It oddly never bothered him.

His behaviour often emerges as hesitant, the way he asses a set before spiking it or considers his words before saying them out loud, but that’s just his being cautious and aware of his surroundings and the way they might affect him. But when he ultimately settles on an objective, then it will be every man for himself because he could burn down an entire building if he thought something wasn’t right about it. Not like he ever did it, he’d thought about it, but the actual process of _doing_ it would require too much time and energy than he’s willing to spare.

He doesn’t like change because he can’t control it, but right now, looking down at Atsumu’s face smashed on the pillow, drool dribbling from the corner of his mouth and hair sticking in every direction, snores filling the room, he thinks he might let it get out of his hands just this time. After he processes that thought a surge of outrage breaks through him making him want to jump out of the window, run a mile and punch something altogether.

He sets the alarm on his phone to go off in a minute and places it beside Atsumu’s head, then closes himself in the bathroom.

When he comes back Atsumu is still laying on the bed but he looks a lot more awake. He’s rolled over Sakusa’s side, the one closer to the window, and has his pillow balled up under his chin, arms peeking from under it as he squints at something on his phone. He wonders if his pillow now smells like Atsumu, his brow twitches at the way Atsumu is nuzzling his sleep-crusted face all over it. He wishes fondness could exceed his annoyance.

“Ain’t we gonna run?”, Atsumu’s voice gets a hundred times more nasal when he hasn’t used it in a while, something that only someone who has slept with him -and this has nothing to do with any kind of implied erotic innuendo- knows, because aside from when he’s asleep, he never fucking shuts up.

He glances at him from above his shoulder and sees him still frowning at his phone then looking out the window and finally gazing at him, a lost expression taking over his sleepy face. “I don’t feel like it”, he puts as much nonchalance as he can into his words, picking up his pyjama shirt and folding it neatly.

From behind him comes the rustle of sheets and the cracking of stiff joints. “What”, Kiyoomi has come to the conclusion that when Atsumu doesn’t know what to say he just runs his mouth with whatever word that pops up in that battered brain of his.

He gives a firm shake to his pyjama pants then folds them with one swift movement, “You looked tired”, he offers, Atsumu still looks at him like he has grown a second head and he squishes down the need to rush to the mirror and see if something weird popped up on his face overnight. “You stayed back to practice the quick with Hinata-kun and Bokuto-san had to bring you here because you fell asleep in his car without telling him your address”, Atsumu’s eyebrows are on their way to become one with his hairline. “My ankle doesn’t feel right and I could use some rest”, he provides lastly and it’s true that he might have landed weirdly on one of his last spikes but he had put ice and ointment on it and this morning it wasn’t even that bad.

That seems to satisfy Atsumu enough as something akin to recognition flashes over his face, then his features crumple in that ugly grimace he makes when he remembers something humiliating or does something to embarrass himself. “Oh, yeah I remember now, ya kicked me in the side to wake me up. Oh-uhm how’s yer ankle?”, he adds after a beat, voice softer and eyes mellow and Kiyoomi hates the feeling that spreads in his chest and stomach, like the crawling of worms or the buzzing of bees and that should suffice as explanation of how gross that feels.

He spits his next words out hoping they were those phantom feelings, “Fine. And I kicked you because you wanted to sleep without taking a shower”, he interjects, feeling his forehead crease in a scowl, “and you stank”, he adds pointlessly.

“That’s more like the asshole I’m datin’, was startin’ to worry some aliens abducted you durin’ the night”, he swings his legs over the bed and stands up, shirt rising over his abdomen and Kiyoomi wants to bite the toned muscles hard enough to draw blood because Atsumu is a brat and he deserves it. He also wants to gurgle mouthwash and spit it in his face for making him desire something like that. He opts for spitting jibes instead, “Don’t use such big words if you are going to wreck the whole sentence like that”. Atsumu gives him a smile that’s all teeth, “Bite me”.

He takes advantage of the now empty bed to stick his pyjamas under his pillow, fluffing it back before poising it near the headboard, his fingers linger on it, twitching with the need to press his nose on it and unveil his previous doubt. He tucks the sheets and covers back up and over it, smoothing down all the wrinkles with long swipes of his open palms. The days are getting warmer he soon will have to discard the comforter if he doesn’t want to sleep in his own personal sauna.

When he turns around Atsumu is staring at him from the bathroom, grinning like the fat cat that caught the mouse. Kiyoomi feels the back of his neck prickle and his ears are hot, Atsumu’s grin widens. Goddammit. “What”, he really wants to punch that stupid smile off his face and it’s only 9am.

“Nothin’”, he shrugs his shoulders then his eyes take on a wicked glint, “jus’ thinkin’ you woulda make the perfect housewife, Omi-Omi”. The pillow hits the bathroom door with a loud thump, cackles resonating from behind it. When Kiyoomi presses a hand over his eyes he feels his cheeks burning and he hates himself a little bit more. He’s glad he threw Atsumu’s pillow.

*  
  


Today it’s their day off and a Saturday, the spring tournament is almost behind the corner so they don’t get them as much as they did before and Kiyoomi plans to make the best out of it. As of now he managed to oversleep, skip his morning jog and morning stretches in favour of spending an embarrassing amount of time staring at his drooling boyfriend. Boyfriend, he hates the word, _mine_ sounds a lot better but then it also makes him look like a psychopath and want to tie his tongue in his mouth.

In view of that their coach and manager decided to throw a gathering later in the evening, realizing his teammates’ -as in Bokuto and Hinata mostly- dream of having practice but not-really-practice with food and drinks instead of a ball, which doesn’t make sense at all but seeing how they’ll probably end up making a race out of who can stuff their mouths with most appetizers, then sure. Practice.

It’s been twenty minutes since Atsumu disappeared inside the bathroom and in that time Kiyoomi has prepared three different outfits for tonight’s event, rummaged through Atsumu’s part of the wardrobe -it’s his wardrobe but he refuses to leave Atsumu’s clothes on the couch or on the foot of the bed for when he will bring them back at his place, because he never does and untidiness makes him want to rip his hair out or bite his fingers off- plucked out some pants and a button-down that would look nice with option number two of his own. Then flung them back inside because he wasn’t honestly thinking of matching them up for a public -it was only their teammates with a plus-one invitation, but still- event.

He leaves the bedroom to make himself some tea and hopefully regain some clarity of mind.

*

Kiyoomi loves the _maneki neko_ statuette he keeps on the kitchen counter -it isn’t the ideal place for a trinket like that, but the kitchen is the place he used to spend most of his time in -before Atsumu wormed his way inside his house and life, rebaptizing his bedroom as their little sanctuary and not Kiyoomi’s demons’ lair- and the cleanest room of the house, countertop pristine white, not a trace of dirt between the tiles. Besides it matches with the small potted cactuses Wakatoshi had given him as ‘consolatory gift’ when he was scouted first by a V.League team.

His psychiatrist had given it to him when, ten years-old and scrawny, he had concluded his first therapy session. He left the studio with the keepsake and a bunch of papers filled with medications intakes and the printed proof of his mysophobia. 

It had taken his parents three years to understand the seriousness of his condition, that he didn’t hide in his room because he hated school and didn’t want to go, that he wasn’t a picky eater based on capricious tastes and that he wasn’t mean to the other children, he just didn’t want them to touch him.

Now that he has _something_ -calling it with some names doesn’t sit right with him because he can’t find any that makes justice to his feelings- with Atsumu he has come to love the small figurine under another light. 

Placing it back down, he gives it another silent stare and _yep, it totally looks like Atsumu._

Since he opened his mind and heart to accept the fact that he _liked_ Atsumu Miya, which happened in a totally unremarkable way really, he just woke up one day with a buzzing under his skin and it couldn’t be _just_ his anxiety picking up like it randomly did some times, because it remained there even after he went through his morning routine, double washed his hands and teeth and took some beta blockers. 

When later that day he’d stepped foot into the gym and was greeted by Atsumu’s wide, smug grin something inside him clicked and he thought _oh, it’s him._

Then _what the fuck!?_

Despite how cautious he usually was, the thought came unheralded and it stayed. 

Then Atsumu as the thunderstorm that he is, broke in and threw it all in the air before putting it all back together, but Kiyoomi has made his peace with that. Mulling over the past was useless and only brought headaches if there was someone like Atsumu involved anyway.

He would have laughed at the memory of the absurd start of their relationship if there wasn’t a certain self-absorbed jerk sitting on the kitchen counter right beside him, droopy eyes peering down at where he’s making them breakfast, a mug filled with coffee clutched between his hands like a life saver -and it probably is seeing how Atsumu regresses to a troglodyte in the morning. Silence broken by the latter’s random grunts when Kiyoomi hand reaches for certain spices and hums when he redirects it towards what he deems correct as seasoning for a stupid omelette.

Thinking back, his therapist had given him the metaphorical pat on the shoulder, congratulating him on his decision to join a sport school club, a hazardous choice for someone with his _peculiarity_. He said it had been a big step into the process of exposure therapy. If Kiyoomi ever happened to cross paths with him again he would definitely tell him how he’d found the perfect medium to carry on that therapy, because living with Atsumu Miya is like being exposed to radioactive waste in the form of narcissistic tantrums and chaotic behaviours every day.

“Hey, you’re gonna burn that. Flip it over”. If he focuses hard enough on something minimal, like the boiling oil frying in the pan, he might manage to tune out Atsumu’s annoying banter, but then the oil could squirt on his skin, frizzling or on his clothes and the stain would never come away and he has enough self-respect to avoid giving himself an aneurysm.

“Are ya listening to me? I ain’t gonna eat carbonized eggs only ‘cuz your cooking sucks”

“You know what carbonized means? I’m impressed”. He smirks at the way Atsumu bristles beside him and sets his mug down with a clink. He punctually rises his arms when he sees him reach out with his now free hand, a half-bitten off curse falling from his lips, aiming for the hand that’s holding the frying pan. “Gimme the pan, ya asshole!”

Atsumu manages to grab his bicep thanks to his elevated position and makes a point of giving it a shove with every word he says. “Flip - the - fuckin’ - eggs – over”. Kiyoomi swats his hand towards his face, effectively making him release his hold as he slides off the counter. “Not yet”, he answers calmly.

From the corner of his eye he sees Atsumu throwing his hands in the air in a theatrical show of surrender. He slowly turns the omelette over as Atsumu heavily sits on the only chair present in the room, the second one broke down after he threw it at a bug before dashing out of the room screaming “OMI-OMI IT FLIES” at the top of his lungs. That happened some days ago and he is still atoning for his sin. Kiyoomi made him clean the toilet for the following week because he is merciful and an asshole. He could’ve just kicked him out knowing -supposing- that he probably hasn’t paid rent in months and for what he knows, his hole in the wall of an apartment wasn’t under his name anymore, but he didn’t. He wonders when he fell in this deep and if it’s too late to turn around and crawl back up in his pristine, silent bubble.

He throws the gloves in the bin under the kitchen sink and places a plate in front of Atsumu who wrinkles his nose at it before shovelling food inside his mouth in a replica of a garden vacuum. He eats silently, his back leaning on the counter and makes up a list of things he needs to buy. More bleach, some common bug repellent spray, a chair, tape to seal Atsumu’s mouth.

“Yo, Omi-Omi, cantcha get rid of that thing, there? It’s fuckin’ ugly an’ creepy”. He rises his head to see Atsumu pointing at something on his left, he narrows his eyes and says “No” without acknowledging _what_ thing is.

Atsumu rebounds immediately like a dog gnawing at a meatless bone,“Ya didn’t even look”.

“I don’t need to, whatever you’re talking about is mine, so I’m not throwing it away”. It’s not even midday and he already wants to bury himself under a mountain of pillows.

“Like that atrocity of a jacket ya keep on wearin’ to practice?”, he doesn’t lift his head to see the smug grin spreading wide over Atsumu’s stupid face but he sure can hear it in his voice. He grunts in warning. “The yellow an’ green one, looks like radioactive diarrhoea t’me”.

“I actually like it so if you can keep your unwanted and obtuse opinions to yourself”. He puts his empty plate on the sink and starts the water, holding a finger under the tap until it turns lukewarm. Behind him he hears Atsumu shuffling his way out of the chair, plate clinking as he scoops it up.

His voice is closer and way more irritating when he speaks next, arm sneaking under his elbow to drop his plate and fork in the now water-filled sink. He doesn’t touch him and a small, wicked part of him wishes that he did, like he’d grabbed him before, he stomps on it until only crumbs are left and takes the new pair of gloves handed to him.

“How can ya like somethin’ as horrendous as that, doesn’t it burn yer eyes jus’ lookin’ at it?”

The fork he’s holding suddenly looks like a very appealing stabbing weapon, but then there would be blood and no, he cares about himself more than he cares about beating Atsumu into oblivion. “I like you”, he serves as explanation, gloating in the way Atsumu’s face lights up before all the dots from the current conversation connect and he grits his teeth, flailing his arms in an attempt to strangle him, stuttering as he remembers something and aims them up instead. He yelps when he hits the top cupboard and cusses at it.

In the meantime, Kiyoomi has put the gloves on and poured dish soap in the sink. He starts scrubbing one plate then he rinses it and passes it to Atsumu who’s waiting with a drying towel in hand. They repeat the process for the remaining plate and the two forks while the frying pan ends up inside the dishwasher after receiving the same treatment as its fellow flatware.

As he puts everything back in its rightful place, he considers his stack of cleaning supplies. “We need to go grocery shopping”.

“Are we already outta soap?”, Atsumu looks at him from where he is scrubbing down the counter, hand thoughtlessly bumping against the ceramic lucky-charm and he glares at him, promising all kinds of painful deaths with his eyes only. “I swear, ya love this thing more than ya love me”. The moment the words leave his lips he chokes, a wretched, ugly kind of sound and slaps a hand over his mouth like it could undo what he just said.

His whole face is red, from the apples of his cheeks down the slope of his nose and back up to his forehead. Even his ears. Kiyoomi’s heart hurts and he focuses on burning that image into memory, together with the unknown but not unwanted feelings swirling in his stomach.

Atsumu opens his mouth, still covered from his open palm, wheezes and turns his face upwards. The blush creeps down the length of his neck and on the collarbones poking from the wide neck of his tee. He wants to bite it, see if he can turn it a shade darker.

Kiyoomi supposes he might as well take them both out of their misery, “No, we still have soap, I just need to grab some stuff”.

“Right”, the word rips from deep within Atsumu’s throat and he shuffles on his feet, unsure what to say or do with himself. Suddenly a loud buzzing erupts in the room, making them both jump as reality slaps back into their faces. Atsumu cusses as he fishes his phone out of his pocket and cusses again when he sees who’s calling. “Sorry, gotta take this”, Kiyoomi hums and sniffles and Atsumu has the nerve to send a knowing smirk his way.

As Atsumu moves to another room he hears a muffled “dafuq ya want”, following words so badly mangled they barely sound human anymore. Even if he wanted to eavesdrop -and he doesn’t- it would be plain impossible.

*

An inconspicuous bottle drops in his shopping cart, he stares at it wearily then rises an eyebrow at Atsumu, “We don’t need any drain cleaner”.

Atsumu huffs from where he is fiddling with his gloves, giving up on whatever he was trying to do he looks at Kiyoomi and shrugs one shoulder. “I do, bathroom got clogged”. Kiyoomi stares more, “Not yer, jeez. I mean, back at my apartment”. Kiyoomi says “oh” and turns his head to glance sightlessly at the rows of flashy cleaning products lined in the shelf.

At the checkout Atsumu separates their purchases, plucking a white chocolate Twix from the exhibitor and dropping it beside the lonely detergent bottle. Kiyoomi feels like that barrier has fallen between the two of them and not only on the conveyor belt.

They linger outside the small supermarket, the cool afternoon breeze tousling through Kiyoomi’s curls, which fall in his face making him frown. They are standing close but their shoulders and elbows don’t touch. Atsumu moves first and the wall dividing them seems to grow ten feet taller, making it impossible for Kiyoomi to look at the top without craning his neck. Then Atsumu leaves with a quick “See ya tonight” to which Kiyoomi doesn’t have the time to answer.

Back at his apartment he slowly and methodically wipes every item he picks from his cotton bag, lining them near the entrance. He washes his hands before coming back to scoop everything up and store it away. When he’s finished, he sits at the kitchen table, hands wriggling as he stares out the glass door leading to a small balcony. He stays there until the sun turns orange then crimson. Only after he stands up, mind numb and empty. He heads to the bathroom to fix a shower, looking at his reflection he notes how red his eyes are but he can’t remember rubbing them today.

He stays under the hot shower spray until the water turns lukewarm, when he leaves the building he’s already ten minutes late.

*

In the span of his life Kiyoomi has been called a lot of things. Some flattering by those who thought that was enough to get in his favour, some mean when the nice ones didn’t succeed in bringing down his walls. Throwing a stone at a stray cat to kick him out of your property is easier than trying to bait him out of it, after all. He brushed them off either way, washing the words away with water and sanitary soap until they didn’t sting anymore and he couldn’t even remember the faces behind them.

No one in his right mind and with two perfectly functional eyes would ever describe him as flexible or versatile without it being strictly related to his volleyball performances or his being double-jointed.

But right now he’s at a loss of words, staring vacantly at two very sharp blue eyes, while his mind tunes out the chattering filling the room, leaving only static, white silence in his ears.

“Come again?”, his voice doesn’t waver nor give away the confusion gnawing at his brain and all he can hear it’s Atsumu’s whiny voice telling him that “Akaashi-san is freaking scary, he can read minds I’m telling ya, don’t think of anythin if you’re alone with him! _”-_ just moments before he ditched him to greet _some people_ he knew, which was weird because as far as he knew Atsumu despised social events as much as he did. He was probably getting more food from the buffet.

“I said that you must be exceptionally adaptable to be in a team so full of- how can I put it, _excitable_ players. I don’t mean to offend but you don’t look like one yourself, Sakusa-san”. Akaashi’s face is calmly nonchalant and his quiet tone is like honey to Kiyoomi’s abused hearing. He reasones that he could actually like him.

“I have to manage if I want to keep my starter position”, if it was anyone else he wouldn’t be so guarded, but Akaashi-san seems extremely smart and intuitive. A crashing sound echoes in the room and they both whip their heads around. Bokuto and Hinata are cackling sitting at one of the round tables lined near the wall, the latter is on the floor, tears springing from his eyes while a tiny, blonde girl coaxes him on his feet embarrassedly. Kiyoomi recalls her as Hinata’s plus one, he had introduced her to everyone when they arrived, her round face going from pink to wax white as he dragged her from teammate to teammate. When they had approached him and Atsumu she looked positively faint. He’d taken pity enough to elbow Atsumu in the gut when he started pestering her on how cute a couple she and Hinata made, earning two identically red faces and a blabbering of nonsensical denials.

A stifled laugh comes from his right, “Bokuto-san can be _a lot_ sometimes”, Kiyoomi wonders if his definition of a lot includes being a living karaoke speaker set by default on the highest volume possible and stuck in the oversized, flailing body of a six-feet-something professional volleyball player. He turns his head ready to agree but Akaashi isn’t looking at him, his eyes lay on Bokuto’s large back as it trembles in laughter and later coughs when he chokes on his drink, Meian, as the ever reliable captain, coming to the rescue to pat whatever is stuck in his throat out. A soft smile graces his features and he looks so fond and plainly enamoured, Kiyoomi feels like he’s prying on an intimate moment.

Does he look at Atsumu like that too? Like he’s all his world and more, like he could rip his own heart out and offer it, naked and jittery, for Atsumu to keep? And then, _can he?_ Is he capable of such fondness? Can he really love someone? Something outside of volleyball?

He looks away.

“He likes you, Sakusa-san”, his heart constricts because Akaashi is speaking of Bokuto but in his mind there’s only Atsumu, “All your teammates do, Hinata especially admires you”, doesn’t want to be here anymolre.

“I’m aware”, he says referring to the last statement in particular, “he makes it rather obvious”.

Akaashi laughs, a clear, lilting thing, “That’s Hinata to you. Atsumu-kun, on his part-“

“I should go search for him”, the words tumble out of his lips before he can realize he’s formulated them in his mind in the first place. He feels hot under his fitting striped suit and he sniffles. Akaashi gives him a fleeting, understanding smile, “I think I saw him loitering around the catering”, he offers. Kiyoomi gives a curt jerk of his chin, ignoring the warmth spreading over his nose and cheeks.

He finds Atsumu sitting on one of the tall stools at the small set up bar, legs swinging lazily as he leans his side on the countertop. He’s swaying his upper body in a poor attempt of following the music playing softly in the background, but Atsumu, among other things, is hopelessly tone deaf and Kiyoomi had to learn it the hard way, barging into his own bathroom wielding a plunger to find out what kind of feral animal had broken into his house, screeching like an herald of the apocalypse. Only to find the joke of a human being he called his boyfriend standing in just his boxers in front of the mirror, an abomination of colours matting his hair -which he was styling into horns like the five-year-old that he is- and gloved hands. Apparently, he had been _singing._

He approaches him throwing a fleeting glance at the bartender who just looks back at him unfazed, carrying on drying clean glasses.

“Are you done bothering the staff?”, he jabs as he brushes off invisible specks of dust from one of the stools before sitting on the edge of it.

“ _Are you done bothering_ Bokuto’s pretty ‘friend’?”, Atsumu mimics back, swaying the remaining ice cubes inside his glass with short, jerky movements. He then sets it back on the counter, not too gently, gesturing for it to be refilled.

“Please, don’t”, Kiyoomi sticks his hand palm down over the empty glass, physically preventing the bartender from pouring more alcohol into it. “He had enough”, he stares hard at Atsumu then, challenging him to try and contradict him.

Atsumu scoffs and swirls around in his seat, elbows propped on the counter behind him while he looks idly at the room and the other guests.

“Careful, you’ll sound like ya care”, he spits and the words hurt more than Kiyoomi will ever let transpire on his face because _I do care, you self-absorbed idiot._

“I thought you liked Bokuto’s friends”, he states and only after he’s said it, it occurs to him that he’s playing along Atsumu’s little game. He scowls.

Atsumu leans even further in the wood behind him, bending his neck backwards he drawls out, “His hair transcends ev’ry rule of fashion and he wears glasses just to look smart, of course I don’t like him. An’ he likes my twin better anyway, stupid ‘Samu and yer stupid rice balls”. He says that like his brother could hear him from miles away.

Kiyoomi scoffs, “You’re so immature”, he lets the straight line of his mouth soften a bit and peeks at Atsumu, his big eyes are veiled and he’s staring at his lips, a dumb smile gracing his wide mouth. Kiyoomi spreads his lips wider, teeth showing, reminding of a shark smiling at his midswim snack. “Besides, so do your hair“.

Atsumu has the indecency to gasp and grip at his shirt like he had just been shot in the heart, face scrunching up in a fake, ugly hurt expression and Kiyoomi wants to kiss those pouty lips but there are too many people around, too many eyes staring and he knows he would fail.

“Omi-Omi”, Atsumu’s breath blows hotly on his cheek and he flinches at the narrow distance separating them now that Atsumu has scooted over the edge of his own seat, leaning towards Kiyoomi. He may have underestimated the amount of alcohol he’s had while on his own or how little tolerance he actually has. “Omi-Omi”, he repeats and it sounds like a plead and Kiyoomi wants to throw him off his chair because there are people staring, his teammates and the back of his neck is prickling, fingers twitching inside the leather gloves.

“Let’s go home”, he says instead, voice rough and scorching, “I think we stayed here plenty enough”. He grabs the sleeve of Atsumu’s oversized, oxblood suit hauling him to his feet.

They stop to inform their coach and manager, waving goodbye to their teammates, then shuffle out and into the night. Weirdly enough Atsumu doesn’t say a thing, nose stuck inside his dark turtleneck as he grimaces and squeezes his eyes. Kiyoomi hopes he doesn’t throw up because he’s not sure his fight-or-flight instinct can bear that. He keeps a hand on his lower back, drowning out his minimal swaying and counts down the steps till his home.

*

Back at his apartment he manages to convince Atsumu to at least discard his suit jacket before flopping on his back on the comforter, an arm swung over his eyes. He considers him for a moment then heads to the kitchen, leaving his own jacket draped on the back of the couch. He comes back with a glass of water and clean hands and coaxes Atsumu into drinking it all.

When he stretches his arm to place the empty glass on the nightstand Atsumu’s fingers slide along his forearm, gliding smoothly on the silky texture of his lime coloured button down. He looks back at him, brow furrowing in confusion and finds him staring, eyes soft and wet and he wants to believe it’s _only_ the alcohol’s fault. “What is wrong with you?”, _is it my fault? Did something happen?_ All those questions weight too much on his tongue.

Atsumu cringes and for a split second Kiyoomi fears to the pit of his stomach that he’s going to cry. He doesn’t, “You. That’s what’s wrong with me, you’re so pretty, Omi-Omi, I wanna keep ya in ma heart an’ nev’r letya go”. His breathe itches and he reaches a hand out, missing Kiyoomi’s face by a mile. He takes the wandering limb and presses it back on the mattress, after a beat he interlaces their fingers together.

“Shut up, Atsumu”

Atsumu smiles at him that stupid smile he gives when he’s particularly smashed after a devastating match or an intense orgasm -a part of Kiyoomi swells and twirls at that last detail. Then he frowns again, jutting his lower lip out and gnawing at it.

“Is it wrong-“, he gulps and Kiyoomi stares at the bobbing movement of his adam’s apple, he tries again dousing down his dialect’s inflection, “ -‘s it wrong if I wanna be the only touch that you crave ‘an the only smell that you breath ‘an the only voice that makes you stop an’ listen. I wanna be the only one that knows your hands like they were my own, the only that can read your face an’ feel what you feel. I’ve always been selfish but I’ve nev’r wanted so much before, so please _let me,_ let me be the one that you want too”, his voice is so wet by now and his face is on fire, skin burning bright red till his ears. His free hand is grasping Kiyoomi’s shirt so hard he’s starting to fret he will just rip it open. “ ‘Cuz I think I love ya, Omi-kun”.

“ _Shut the fuck up”,_ he says,”, but he reaches down to press his thumb under Atsumu’s left eye, stroking the soft, warm skin. “You’re such a spoiled brat”, Atsumu turns his head deliberately slow keeping their gazes locked and takes his thumb in his mouth, lips closing around it, teeth grazing over the skin and Kiyoomi wants to press down hard on his tongue, make him swallow back those words.

“Omi-Omi, if ya don’t kiss me now”, he’s still pressing his lips against the pad of his thumb, “I’m gonna die”.

“Shut up”, he repeats like a broken record, “You didn’t even wash your teeth”, but he leans down and brings his free hand up to cup Atsumu’s jaw. They kiss like that, still dressed in uncomfortable clothes, the angle is all wrong and Atsumu’s breath smells like liquor but his mouth is hot velvet and Kiyoomi is melting on it like a wax statue on fire.

They keep kissing, open mouthed, lingering and drawing it out until they both remember they actually need to breathe. For minutes, hours, Kiyoomi doesn’t care but by then he’s half lying over Atsumu, belt digging stingily on his hip, head resting under his jaw and feet touching the floor. He wants to take a shower and change in looser, cozier clothes, but he also doesn’t want to move.

“I talked with ma brother”, Atsumu’s voice stirs him out of his doze and he gives a noncommittal hum when he fails to lift his head. “He said some shit ‘bout me, alright that’s nothin’ new, I meant me an’ you. _Us._ Said we’re jus’ foolin’ around an’ I’m jus’ deludin’ myself ‘cuz ya let me crash at yer house so much”.

Kiyoomi considers that, then considers the little he knows about Atsumu’s twin, “Fuck him”, he feels proud of himself when Atsumu actually laughs that obnoxious, loud laugh of his.

“Don’t fall asleep on me, Omi-Omi”, he nudges him hard and completely not tenderly. He grunts, “Fuck you”. Atsumu gives him a shove then, almost rolling him down the side of the bed, “Fuck _you_ , I’m the one that gets skinned alive in the mornin’ if we fall asleep in our clothes and ov’r the sheets”.

Kiyoomi sighs and gets to his feet shivering as his naked soles make contact with the parquet, he will have to wash the floor tomorrow. He takes a shower first and cuts down his usual skin-care routine to three steps: cleansing, exfoliation and moisturizing.

While Atsumu’s takes his turn in the bathroom he changes the comforter and retrieves his jacket from the living room.

When he comes back Atsumu is already laying under the covers, looking a second away from falling asleep. He drops the small object he’s tucked in his sleeve on Atsumu’s chest as he lies on his side of the bed. Atsumu startles sleepily and blinks down at it, looking like he has a double chin -Kiyoomi makes a mental note to tease him later, next time-, he grabs the shiny key in his hand turning it this way and the other, then realization settles in and he jerks his head towards Kiyoomi, neck cracking at the harsh movement. “Didya-“

“No, it’s my spare key, so if you lose it you stay outside”. Atsumu stares back at the key like he’s never seen one before.

“Are ya askin’ me to move in, with ya, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi grunts and rolls over, he assumes Atsumu’s is smart enough to figure it out on his own.

In the middle of the night, moments before sleep reclaims both their minds, he says “Bring one of your chairs over, we need another”. He doesn’t get an answer but he supposes he can remind him again in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> I finally made it! I'll be honest this part took more than i had expected, maybe it's because it's my first time writing from Kiyoomi's point of view and maybe it's because there's a lot of myself in his torturing, mind-boggling thinking process.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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